The stream (all workshops)
I grew willing
to take a chance
I took your hand,
you led me in
the veiled dance.
Under your influence
I looked deeply into
your eyes, the color
of wood-smoke...
I was hypnotized
knew I would never stray
would always sway
under the influence
of our love...
We became much more
than solitary souls.
mysterious motorcycle
riders of the winds...
We became the roads
traveled, smoking
every winding curve...
knowing we had found home.
What is Love if not fucking crazy,
What is love if not burning desire,
throwing yourself off a cliff,
red-hot steam rising from the fire.
Give me a love that is real, that is brutal,
that’ll tear me apart at the seams.
I want it to be the stuff of fantasies,
fulfill every desire, satiate every dream.
Let love tempt me with her serpentine ways,
I will take the biggest, sweetest bite.
I’ll brush the salt lines off my windowsill,
and unlock my doors, an open invite.
Today, I saw boy that looked just like you.
At least how I remember you...
Light brown hair.
Short, straight, spiky...
He had your style
and your smile,
and he smiled at me.
I smiled back politely
but my heart sank
because he wasn't you.
I sat in the parking lot
a few extra seconds
to see him once more.
I know I'll never see him again
just like I'll never see you again.
I think in another life we would’ve been married,
I would’ve been your wife.
I would stay home
Not because you thought I should
But because I didn’t want to work.
Crazy was never boring.
But it couldn’t be built to last.
Her love had sharp edges.
The cutting kind with no concern.
As if she could mend everything
with all of my pieces.
Rather than be a day late
and dollar short, I opted
to post poem acknowledging
the second of February,
where eponymous groundhog
gets his (most often male)
foretelling whether there will be
six more weeks of winter upon oblate
spheroid generating hoopla
whether spring will arrive early and satiate
those folks who favor spring.
There sure should have been a warning
on those black and white photographs
from an era long since past,
but not easily forgotten.
Mid nineteenth-century clothing,
Top hats, coat, waistcoat,
pantaloons, and high boots.
In hand, a wolf-headed, silver-tipped cane.
This figure centered in the shot.
Eyes focused and keenly hateful,
His vision, direct, striking!
obscenity and rage seeming fateful
sent directly to me.
Janey was frightened! as well, she should be
by the haunting events on her neighborhood streets
The jackals were back and at it again
looking for strays in the dark whistling wind
the blue hooded men with tunics appeared
covered with signs of astrological zeal
they’d come for a taste of blue oysters at midnight
looking through telescopes and glancing at tarot cards
revealing their destiny through tomes of dark magic
but cold apparitions of death had appeared
with a howl that cried out, Joan Crawford is near
There is an ominous lordship
in the woods - no child plays,
no cardinal sings,
no pod, nor leaf, nor seed
endures. No blade of grass
is remembered.
Unfiltered death hangs - purgatoried.
I have been to this cold place,
embittered and unholy.
Wretched vines strangle each other in
a struggle for the hard, sallow dirt.
Trees have ossified, turned rangy,
their stark branches pilfering
dust from the air as their rotted roots
forage deeper, churning down to the
chasm below.
Looks can be deceptive
The full moon is so reflective
Her mood waxes and wanes
She laughs and then complains
It’s that time of the month
She’s not happy – unlucky for some
But have no fear: glee will surely come
She’ll be full of light, and then will have won
A crescent may not seem pleasant
But’s it’s better than nothing
So, she looks at herself –the Brightside of life,
Shines, smiles: sizable gains- it lessens the strife
The full moon is full of emotion
She brings on waves of commotion
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